


The Best Part

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [39]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring comes to Iowa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Part

Rodney gets a cold, and to hear him tell it, it's the plague; it's the plague with a helping of mutant typhoid-undergraduatus; it's the plague, and typhoid, and probably cholera, and he hates the university and every germ-soaked student in it, cutting down his genius in his prime, leveling him with bacteria, the world will hold them accountable, it will, it _will_ , delaying proof of his theories by _hours_ and god, someone make it stop, for the love of quarks.

John nods and pleasantly hums his agreement, offers the Tylenol, heaps a couple more quilts on the bed, and takes the kids to daycare, same as always.

It's spring and the world's waking slow and cautious. There's green here and there – a splash of grass; a reckless wash of daffodils – but the prairie grass is gold and dry, the trees mostly bare, the fields wide-open and empty. Still, it smells like something's growing– the deep, damp scent of soil that's ready to do its work, and John knows he's a fool to think of planting so early, but there's chard he can risk, and maybe some peas. He wants dirt beneath his fingernails, the satisfaction of rain and wind, and he grins to himself, turns up the radio, pulls the truck up by the barn and sets to oiling up the tiller before he can change his mind.

It's hard work, the tilling – he has to set his shoulders against the bump of the land – and he finds himself crooning reassurance to each clod of earth he rips up and tears, a sing-song encouragement like the babble he mumbles to Merrie in the night. "That's it," he says, and, "steady, steady," and the garden's a patch of deep, black possibility before he can really count the time.

"You hate me," Rodney says as John cuts the motor. He's standing at the edge of the plot, huddled inside a coat, with a blanket around his shoulders, and there are mounds of balled up Kleenex poking from between the fingers of his visible hand. "Why would you do this, with the – " he waves a hand at the tiller " – when I'm – do you have no _soul_?"

John ducks his head to hide a smile, ambles over, rubs his knuckles across the top of Rodney's head. "Geez, Rodney, you made it all this way, maybe it's gonna work out all right."

Rodney slumps against him, sniffles pitifully. "Shows what you know."

John kisses his brow, hauls him in close, sets his chin on top of Rodney's head. "I was thinking potatoes," he says conversationally. "Too early for the carrots and the onion sets, but . . ."

"I like corn," Rodney offers.

"How about peas and lettuce?"

Rodney humphs. "I suppose the vagaries of Iowa being what they are, we'll have to start with the lesser veg."

John nods as best he can, rubs a hand up and down Rodney's arm. "You could help, you know. Throw a little seed."

Rodney straightens up and squares his shoulders. "I might get it wrong," he says waspishly.

"Rodney." John walks over to the seed packets on the ground. "You can't get it wrong."

"I'd do better if it was, I don't know. Space. Time. Matter."

John hands him the pea packet. "Like you didn't come down here because I was planting," he says.

Rodney sighs heavily and throws off his blanket, stuffs his Kleenex into the pocket of his coat. "It's just that this is – this is – " He gestures at the garden, at the new-turned earth and the places John's boots have left divots, and he looks confused and uncertain, a little fond. "It's just that this is always the best part," he says eventually, cheeks pinking up, and John grins at him, feels it bloom soft and warm in his chest, says, "Yeah, you're right," and kisses him gently, germs be damned.


End file.
